


It's raining

by Silvianinetynine



Category: Original Work
Genre: Historical, Introspection, Italy, Resistance, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-22
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-08-27 18:50:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16708063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvianinetynine/pseuds/Silvianinetynine
Summary: 22 December 1943.It's raining.A boy walks in the woods.His wrists hurt him, and so does the head, but this makes him feel alive.He knows where he is going, or better, where they are taking him.He thinks about the stars, so free in the sky.He thinks about his family, his childhood in the mountains with 17 sheep.His mind recalls past and present, memories, numbers, and sensations.The boy has big dreams and the chance of becoming a good poet.But in the Fascist Era, nothing goes as hoped, nor as planned.





	It's raining

**Author's Note:**

> All right people, hi everyone! It’s Silvia talking, and this is my first experiment ever with an English story (I am Italian.) For this reason, I apologize for eventual mistakes and I ask you all to help me improve my shitty languages abilities leaving a comment. ^^  
> But let’s talk about history: the setting is World War Two, Italian Resistance in particular. It is not necessary to know History to understand the story, but it can help to get some reference! It’s the story a partisan, unnamed, he can be whoever you want. Even my grandparent, or yours. I hope it’s enjoyable even to someone who does not feel Resistance so close as I feel it. Let me know! The song you find between the parts of the story is an Italian song, “Le tasche piene di sassi”, by Jovanotti. It is not related to the story but helps to get into the mode, I highly recommend listening to it.  
> I now leave the story to you all: enjoy!

#  **_It’s raining_ **

 

   


  
  
  
_Passano alcune musiche_  
_Ma quando passano la terra tremerà_  
_Sembrano esplosioni inutili_  
_Ma in certi cuori qualche cosa resterà_  
_Non si sa come si creano_  
_Costellazioni di galassie e di energia_  
_Giocano a dadi gli uomini_  
_Resta sul tavolo un avanzo di magia_  
  
 

  
You walk.  
  
You do not even know how much time you have walked now.  
You walk and you think.  
A rivulet of blood glides over your temple.  
You know where they are taking you, but you are only able to keep moving forward.  
Your feet sink into the wet soil.  
It’s raining.

 

 

 _18 years old._  
So incredibly young. Strong arms and worn-out boots. Ideals and dreams, at this point, you know, without future

 _17 sheep._  
This is all your family has, in a farmstead lost in the mountains. You can breath good air, there, in that sea of green and blue.

 _16 times._  
Your friends used to say to you that you could have become a poet. But your relatives do not believe in art, and, actually, neither Mussolini does.

 _15 years old._  
Even younger you were, when war felt on your life like a black curtain, leaving you only broken hopes and growing ideas.  
   
_14 constellations._  
You can recognize them in the winter sky. There are more, but you have no memory. But you are fascinated by the stars: they are so free.  
   
_13 tolls._  
The old house clock often beats them. Maybe, it is a sign that anti-conformism is part of your family.

 _12 years old._  
Younger and younger you were when you first kissed a friend. Who knows where she is, now? She sent to you some postcards from Fossoli. Then, nothing more.

 _11 shots._  
You heard them, one night, from the stable. Not even a scream followed them. No one knows who the victims where. Only a stain of blood remained, in the morning.  
   
_10 brothers._  
Your father loves you all, but you particularly, because you are the older, and you two are so similar. Who knows where she is, now.  
   
_9 years old._  
Even younger you were when you go into fights for the first time. Your father thought you to defend yourself, back then. It has been useful many times.  
   
_8 lires._  
Your wage, the wage of a simple laborer in the weapon factory you worked in. Money was needed at home, especially with that ages-lasting war.

 _7 kilometers._  
The village was that far away from your house. It was a short ride, by bike. Stones on the path and punctures where the funny part.  
   
_6 years._  
Extremely young you went into the woods for the first time. Your mother waited for you to come back: she knows you would. She is probably waiting for you even now. In vain.  
   
_5 friends._  
You grew up with them, cigarettes and adventures. They had always been with you, side by side. Now, two are dead. The other think you are crazy.  
  
   
_4 soldiers._  
They knocked at your door and messed up the entire house. They were looking for food and wine. There was no respect in their gestures, violence only.  
   
_3 years old._  
Younger and younger you were when you first sister was born. She died just a few days later. Even then, you understood that only the stronger survive. Today, you stand between the weak. Between the ones that will die before morning.  
   
_2 goodbyes._  
One to you girlfriend, beautiful as a mountain flower, and one to your parents, strong as that same flower. You whisper to the wind and leave to it the duty of consigning them.  
   
_1 word._  
It sounds light when you pronounce it. It the word you started fighting for and, now, all that counts.  
   
_0 years old._  
22 December 1925. Late afternoon. In that farmstead lost in the mountains, a cry is heard. It’s you. Your story starts. It’s raining.  

 

_Le scarpe piene di passi_  
_La faccia piena di schiaffi_  
_Il cuore pieno di battiti_  
_E gli occhi pieni di te_  
(Freedom)

  
  


 

22 december 1943.  
Your back touches a  freezing brick wall.  
You reached the place that will be your grave.  
At your side, you have two companions, soil-stained clothes and tied up wrists.  
The three of you know that you did not fight in vain.  
The three of you hope that the future will make the values you believe ingrow.  
The three of you, silently, say goodbye to life.  
Facing you, SS soldiers laugh while pointing guns.  
People say that facing death, all of you life passes in front of you.  
But you die as a partisan, andoneotherthings occupy your mind.  
A word.  
Freedom.  
Soldiers shoot.  
Your worn-out skirt soaks in blood.  
It is late afternoon.  
It’s raining.  
Sometimes, life’s best and worse moments match: this is the paradox of goodbyes.  
   
 

_Sbocciano I fiori sbocciano_  
_E danno tutto quel che hanno in libertà_  
_Donano non si interessano_  
_Di ricompense e tutto quello che verrà_  
_Mormora la gente mormora_  
_Falla tacere praticando l'allegria_  
_Giocano a dadi gli uomini_  
_Resta sul tavolo un avanzo di magia_  
  
  
  
 


End file.
